


Heaven or Hell

by thelilnan



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Caretaking, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, Flirting, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Slash, sorry - Freeform, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilnan/pseuds/thelilnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean saves Javert after his suicide attempt and nurses him back to health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Savior Complex

> _"Blessed is the one_ _who does not walk in step with the wicked,_ _or stand in the way that sinners take_ _or sit in the company of mockers._ _But whose delight is in the law of the Lord,_ _and who meditates on his law day and night."_

”You  _would_  read me that passage,” Javert grumbled, eyes lowering to the blanket, “A savior complex fits you well.”

Valjean shut the Bible with a sigh. It’d been like this for days, ever since Javert awoke from his coma. He hadn’t taken well to being cooped up after his  _attempt_ , especially not with Jean Valjean, savior of man, heart of a martyr. His words.

“The saved are usually more grateful,” he muttered under his breath, sitting back in his chair, “But you were certain you would receive punishment. Not salvation.”

Javert refused to look up and instead pulled at his bandages around his splinted arm. He would be stuck in Valjean’s company for some time. A broken back and a shattered arm.

He would be  _dependent._

“Are you hungry, Javert?” The question was innocent, but Javert treated everything like an attack. He glared at Valjean.

“Trying to make me admit weakness.”

“Your back is broken. Do not let pride ail you further.”

He was right.

“I am hungry.”

“Then I will make you food.”

“No!” Javert snapped on instinct. Damned if a convict would-

“Then you’ll make it yourself?”

Fire raged inside Javert’s chest.

“Beef or chicken broth?” Valjean’s smile turned Javert’s blood to poison.

“Beef,” he relented. He was hungry. A man is weak to his body above all. He prayed God was not smiling like Valjean.

“Then I will see to it, Monsieur,” he bowed, like a servant, and left Javert with his thoughts. The Bible was just out of reach.

He was a prisoner.

Valjean’s prisoner.

_Maybe this is Hell._

The thought comforted him more than he could say.


	2. Limits

The next days were no better. Javert was hostile, as much as one can be while remaining dependent, but Valjean proved again and again his patience was unfailing. He brought him food and changed his bedclothes and washed his skin (though Javert would thump him and shove him away, even as he scrubbed his face.) Every morning and every evening, Valjean would sit by the bed and read a passage of scripture and pray with the crippled man. Javert would bow only in reverence to God. It was not something they did together, merely at the same time and place. Javert made it clear, time after time, that this was the case.

Valjean’s patience was wearing thin.

“Eat,” he said flatly at supper one night when Javert cast him a hateful and wary look. Apparently oven-fresh bread was enough cause to arouse his suspicions. He recoiled as much as he could with a broken spine.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake-!” Valjean shouted and stood, kicking the chair back. Javert grew still with very real fear, “Yes, I fished you out of the Seine and brought you to a hospital and into my home to kill you, slowly, over the months! That is all I have to do with my time! Not watch after my daughter or find decent wage. No, my entire life, as yours has been, was entirely a revenge plot against you!”

Javert stared at Valjean then, as his rage died down and he rubbed his face. The scars from Toulon showed on his wrists. Javert had not seen a similar rage since those days in prison, old memories reminding him of the things imprisoned men would stoop to. He carefully chose to remain quiet as images of brawls and riots flooded his mind.

“I am sorry I shouted,” Valjean apologized quietly after a long silence. His sat his chair back at the bedside.

“The saved are usually grateful,” Javert muttered in supplication. Valjean grunted softly and rubbed his tired eyes.

“I am not without limits,” Valjean tried again, “And... There are times... frequently, when I think of what I may have been by now if I didn’t see you jump that night.”

He swallowed, resting an elbow on the bed. Javert watched him in silence.

“I’d be more peaceful, surely. I wouldn’t spend my days caring for a bed-ridden...”

Whatever he wanted to say then, he held his tongue. Javert knew anyway. He’d heard the worst from the scum of France. He wore those titles with pride. The wicked curse those who walk in light. ‘Bastard’ was good as ‘bishop’ to him by now.

“I regret it more than I care to,” the older man continued, “But I wouldn’t trade a clean conscience for an easy life. I’ve done that before. It is a hateful path.”

Javert agreed, in his own, stoic way.

There was a long silence then, with nothing between them but the gentle flickering of the candlelight and the ticking of the hallway clock. Javert glanced to the supper plate.

“Yes, alright,” Valjean answered softly as he retrieved it to feed the man once more. Javert ate easily now, knowing that even Valjean the Saint had his limits. It comforted him deeply to know this man was no Saint. He was still an angry criminal underneath and could be provoked.

The night progressed easier from there. Javert said his prayers with Valjean at his bedside until the sun had long set.

“Hail Mary and all the saints,” they muttered together. Valjean stood then to extinguish the candles and let Javert rest before the crippled man spoke up.

“Thank you. Valjean.”

How many years had it been since Javert called him that in his presence? Had he ever said his name in easy company, not with malice or a shout into the darkness as the convict fled? Valjean reflected briefly, eyes downcast, before blowing out the candles.

“Sleep well, Javert.”


	3. Routine

Valjean thanked the Lord he had long prepared for the twilight years of his life, working and saving each sous he earned to ensure a comfortable life. He needed them now, with Javert taking his time the way he did. He reminded himself it was a mission in God’s plan–reminded himself often–but each day was a battle against Javert’s stubbornness. But he’d grown used to the grumpy man and, having broken their tension with a show of rage as Javert remembered it, they were allowed to be honest rather than unduly hostile.

“Your hair needs a comb,” Javert would comment as Valjean puttered in to breakfast with him.

“Your whiskers need shaving.”

“As if I would let you.”

Valjean would smirk, “I’ll get you one day.”

It was unnervingly comfortable. God save them both, they were getting used to this push and pull between animosity and friendship which disquieted both men, so set in their ways as they were. But it was nice to be able to talk openly with an old enemy and debate honestly with a friend. Yes... they were friends, both men realized uncomfortably and slowly. Friends without the limits of respect, who could snip and criticize the other when they were in the wrong. Enemies, as always, who could afford another a compliment when the other had made a clever point. It was a pleasant limbo that aided stretch of the days as Javert slowly healed.

But even some routines need their changes. The nightly readings from the Bible was preferred by both men, for their reasons, but Valjean decided they needed a new book for a few nights. He needed the break from Javert’s heated arguments against Valjean’s forgiving beliefs. He couldn’t bear the weight any longer; even Jean-le-cric had his limits. He was not a bishop and would not assume to be such, so modest was he in his faith. Javert, however, spoke with conviction when he read the vengeful verses that he favored. He would make a fantastic Fire And Brimstone preacher if given the chance. But it was not to be in this life and thus, Valjean turned to his sparse bookcase along the wall of Javert’s room for relief.

“You skipped so much of the story,” the former inspector grumbled from his bed, reading through the passages of the wrathful and just God he’d always known and always feared. Valjean avoided those chapters when reading to him, instead focusing on love, forgiveness, and salvation. The two often exchanged disapproving glances when the other was reading.

Javert read through Deuteronomy.

“I got the important things,” Valjean replied dismissively. His fingers traced the spines of the books as he sought out a good story for his dependent, “And you know the book by now. What does it matter?”

“You’re manipulating me into kindness for when I return to my post. You want mercy from me.”

Valjean smiled over his shoulder, “I’d never expect something so hateful.”

“What is that book,” Javert changed the subject abruptly, disquieted by Valjean’s gaze. He glanced at the thick novel in his hands, suddenly realizing what he’d picked out.

“ _Le rouge et le noir_ ,” Something inside Valjean smiled wickedly at the selection, “Stendhal.”

“I’ve never read that.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

The seemingly innocent remark was apparently enough to ignite a war between the two men. Valjean tried in vain to explain over Javert’s shouting exactly what he meant (beyond the fact it’d only been published two years prior) but the fighting instead dragged on for long hours, until the lazy summer evening had waned to night and the candles had burned down. The older man fumed at the day wasted and paced the room while Javert grumbled quietly in the bed. Infuriating, exasperating, impossible. Valjean thunked the book down by his side anyway, plucking the Bible from his hand.

“If you’re so damned curious,” he said with the bitter taste of anger in his mouth, “Read for yourself.”

“It’s too dark to read, you damned fool! You’re going to extinguish the candles!”

It was true. Valjean smirked, “What a shame.”

“You’re a demon in my life,” Javert spat up at the man, “An evil snake in my path to righteousness! You tempt me with smut,” he thumped the book against the mattress, “In order to divert my eyes from God!”

Valjean raged, pacing frantically as he shouted at Javert for his damned foolishness. The fight lasted hours, long after the sun had set, and both men grew tired of anger and slumped together, Javert in his bed, Valjean in his chair. The room was set in a dark blue from the starlight and moon outside, softly illuminating their features, both wrought with exhaustion.

“We’ll pick the scripture back up tomorrow,” Valjean said in a soft voice, fingers rubbing at his tired eyes.

“That would probably be wise,” Javert quietly agreed.

There was a moment then, when they reached for the other’s hand in reassurance, clasping hands tightly before Valjean left for bed. It was surprisingly intimate for the two reserved men, once pitted against another, growing closer through dependence and necessity, and it scared them deeply.

Some things should not change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you get the allusion to Le rouge et le noir. Wink.


	4. Recovery

The days in Valjean’s apartment turned into weeks and even as the two men grew accustomed to each other’s presence, Javert grew more uncomfortable in his bed. His legs ached to be chasing criminals again. And in his restlessness, Javert resolved to heal himself.

He tried to sit up.

The pain was immense, each little bit he hefted his thinning body up, and he was always discouraged and ushered back down by Valjean’s fretting hands. Still, he would try a bit each morning before he was drowning under the onslaught of constant care and watch. Eventually, he regained his strength and his bones had healed. He could, with much effort, sit up.

Valjean had never seen a happier grin.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” he commented as he set up the table for their luncheon. Javert’s supporting arm seized with muscle strain, but he refused to lie back down.

“I’ve never had such a triumph,” Javert beamed bright as a child who’d passed their first test. It was remarkably endearing, Valjean found himself thinking. But too soon, Javert’s tired body began to ache unwaveringly and he had to reluctantly lie back down. 

_Just as well_ , Valjean thought while buttering bread, _lunch will recover that strength_.

This victory brightened Javert’s mood for the next few days. He talked at length his plans for escaping Valjean’s watching eyes as the man gathered his sheets and laundry for a wash.

“I’ll get back to work on bringing sinners to the law,” he promised firmly, “I’ll start with you.”

“I wish you would,” Valjean commented absently, folding the top quilt, “Then I’ll be locked away from your madness until the end of my days.”

“I’ll follow you even there.”

They both stopped at the comment and shared a look. They tried not to let the look last too long. Valjean excused himself from the room with the intent to begin the wash, but knew it was only a half-truth. There was something in Javert’s look and promise that deeply disturbed Valjean, though it was not the idea of going back to prison as he might’ve guessed of himself. Rather the image of Javert, slightly hunched and limping about the town in his now-oversized uniform disturbed him to his soul.

As much as he loathed the memory of Toulon’s hardest guard, seeing Javert as anything but this proud enforcer of the Law Above All was disheartening to him. It was far too much of a memento mori for Valjean to even think of Javert becoming this helpless old man puttering about the streets in vain attempt to uphold the law. He vowed in that moment never to see that day. He didn’t consider at the time this would mean becoming Javert’s permanent nursemaid and caretaker and that perhaps it wasn’t his own mortality that truly frightened him. He’d reflect on this far later, weeks and months in the future when so much had changed, but now it was a selfish fear. 

That was what he told himself.

He read Javert his passage for the day. Javert recited lines as he knew them–almost all–though the bitterness was almost entirely absent from his voice now. Valjean noticed as he carefully read the forgiving words before him, letting Javert’s voice take the lead. The inspector grabbed for the Bible when his memory ran blank and soon enough, he was guiding their meditation for that night. Valjean relented and listened, silently reflecting on the theology Javert preached. The day grew late and Javert finished his extemporaneous sermon. Valjean commended him for it, pressing a touch to his arm in a way he hadn’t meant, but Javert accepted it readily. They shared the moment of fondness openly.

They wished each other good night.

_When did it become wishing_? Valjean asked of himself as he undressed for bed in his own room. _When did we allow the other to speak like old friends instead of waiting for our turn to bite?_  

He absently remembered, as he said his bedside prayers, the worrying thoughts of Poor Old Javert and how the urchins of the street would take to seeing their favorite inspector weak and fragile. He clutched his rosary tighter, cross digging into his palm, as he finished his prayer.

“Heal him with your love,” he muttered just before the end, “In your blessed name, Amen.”

Sleep was uneasy for Valjean, filled with dreams of a fragile old man in an ill-fit uniform, surrounded by desperate beggars and mischievous children. He’d put him there, in his dreams, though it was not really himself. It was 24601, in scars and anger, who’d run him down and shoved him back into the gutter. Valjean rushed his former self without a thought, grappling with the beast of a man, yelling curses and fighting for Javert’s soul. Javert was struggling at his feet, caught in the tide of the gutter, being pulled back to the Seine, as 24601 raged against him.

“Why are you protecting him?!” the convict snarled as they wrestled, the strength of anger and the strength of a vowed protector equally matching. Javert was slipping away beneath the tide. 24601 was winning.

“I can’t let him die!” Valjean fell to his knees, hands crushed in his former self’s unhindered grip. He cried out in pain, feeling the bones break.

“He would turn his back on you!”

His wrists snapped.

“He would cast you aside!”

Valjean arched with a scream.

“He would have you turn back into me!”

He collapsed with the prisoner pressing him into the mud, tears streaming from his eyes, as Javert was lost beneath the tide. Valjean shouted himself awake, clutching at the sheets and covered in a light sweat from the intensity of the nightmare. In his dazed and half-thinking state, he promised himself he would never again see the inspector reduced to his bones and wasting away in the swell of the gutter.

He would not live to see that day.


	5. First Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone mentioned this point a while ago and I wanted to clarify that Javert broke his spine somewhere in the L2 to S2 regions, which is the small of the back to lower pelvic areas. This translates to "various patterns of leg weakness and numbness, depending on the precise level of injury." 
> 
> So, yeah, he'll walk but it'll be difficult.
> 
> What am I saying, just read the fic.

Javert was getting stronger, aided by Valjean and his prayers. It was remarkable to see God’s work in the man as he pressed his feet to the floor and tested his legs. They were still strong from his years of pursuit, though shaky like a newborn colt’s. Valjean used his hands to steady and support as Javert stood, ending up clutching him tight when his own weight overcame him. They’d never been so close, arms around each other, Javert physically dependent and trusting of the man. The moment lasted too long for either of them, ending when Valjean set him back on the bed, careful as he could.

“I’ll stand by week’s end,” Javert promised bitterly, gripping the mattress in anger.

“You’re getting stronger,” Valjean assured him, “Your back is mostly healed, and you’ve regained your right arm. It’s enough to be proud of.”

Javert flexed it in response, glad to be rid of one hindrance at least.The cast and splint had been unbearably itchy the more the arm healed.

“Soon we’ll be at odds again,” Javert muttered mostly to himself, picking at a loose thread. Valjean pretended not to hear him, though inside, his heart clenched at the thought.

“I’ll be out for a while,” he set the Bible by Javert’s hand, “We’re running out of bread.” _When did it become ‘we?’_

“Sneaking mouthfuls, no doubt.” _When did we start making light of the past?_

“No doubt. Try to keep to the bed in my absence.” _I’d hate for anything to happen_.

“Yes, maître,” it wasn’t quite a joke. Valjean touched his arm on his way out.

_When did I start touching him so much?_

It was a question he already knew the answer to. The nightmare had changed his attitude to Javert from a slowly-growing fondness to overbearingly affection. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He couldn’t quite help it though. It’d worked into his mind that if he did not keep a close watch and hand near Javert at all times, 24601 would very well burst in and attempt to throttle the weakened man. The thought chilled him, impossible as it was, as Valjean walked the crowded Parisian streets.

He made his way to the boulangerie and bought a loaf of bread and enough to make a stew for that night. He was distant in his errands, however, lost in thoughts of Javert and the future. Lost in ideas of being alone once more, though in his heart he knew Cosette would keep close by well into her married years. Even so, his home had become warmed by the grumpy soul haunting it. When Javert had properly healed, that warmth would leave. Valjean’s eyes grew sad and hooded as he pressed the francs into the hand of the butcher.

“Monsieur?” someone called. Valjean did not seek the voice out in the crowd.

He took the long way home to soothe his troubled mind about the future and happened upon a haberdashery. He turned into the store when a proudly displayed item caught his eye. Securing its purchase brought him great peace–and despair, as he clutched it tight.

-

“I’ve bought something for you.”

Javert groaned, rubbing his heavily whiskered face–Valjean had yet to bring the straight razor to his cheeks. They were not ready for that.

“Lord spare me, the man is spoiling me.”

Valjean grinned, presenting him with his purchase.

It was an elegant, deep black, wooden walking cane, trimmed with polished silver. A simple fleur-de-lis design was engraved in the handle, a reminder of Javert’s proud service.

The former inspector’s eyes became wide as he took the thing but his expression was inscrutable. Dull grey eyes flicked over the length of the present as if its existence could not be believed. It was satisfying to have caused such a reaction but Valjean remained unsure whether he had pleased or insulted his friend. He leaned in, coaxing a voice to the reaction.

“I...”

“It’s yours, obviously,” his hands fidgeted with Javert’s sheets, “I cannot always be there to support you in your stride, and I thought-”

Javert’s hand grabbed his and squeezed it tight. Their eyes met at the touch.

“It’s too expensive.”

Valjean grinned widely at that. Relief.

“Can I not spread my wealth to you?”

“No.”

He laughed, squeezing his hand back. Javert permitted himself a smile but directed it at the cane.

“I’ll be a gentleman of distinction.”

Valjean leaned in.

“A man of pride, as you always were.”

Javert turned to meet his gaze. The proximity was comfortably close.

“Thank you, Monsieur le Maire.”

Their fingers interlocked.

-

The days were hard on both of them as Javert stubbornly persisted with his rehabilitation. His legs were weak, not just in the muscles, but in coordination. Valjean supposed the injury to his spine had some consequences but he wasn’t a doctor. Javert walked uneasily, but he walked. 

Soon enough, he didn’t need Valjean’s strength or hands to guide him; only the cane. He walked with a hunch, dragging up the nightmares that dogged Valjean’s nights, but he was very much Javert. He had his stubborn strength still and his quiet dignity, even as he puttered about the apartment with the thump of a cane.

“I look like an old man,” he complained as he moved past Valjean in the kitchen, “A putz.”

Valjean laughed uneasily, “Where on earth did you hear that word?”

Javert didn’t remember, “All the same.”

“You look like a survivor,” he was assured. Javert leaned his shoulder against him meaningfully.

“Dragged out of hell’s fires, maybe.”

Valjean pressed back.


	6. Hesitation

Progress slowed as time went on, much to Valjean’s surprise. Javert was walking, but nothing like what Valjean had hoped for by this time. He should be striding confidently, leaning less on the cane each day, but it seemed his progress was either slowed or nonexistent. He still required Valjean’s help with certain tasks and refused to attempt the stairs. Almost as if he was afraid of what his steps out those doors would bring.

“You’ve become a recluse,” Valjean noted quietly. They sat on the couch together. Javert glanced to his side and shifted uncomfortably with a grunt.

“I’ve never much liked people,” he mumbled irritably, “And they never much liked me.”

Valjean took his hand in silence and they laced their fingers. It had become commonplace between them. He rubbed small circles against Javert’s larger hand almost unconsciously, but with deliberate purpose.

“You should come to the store with me,” he suggested to the wall more than to Javert, “You could get new clothes.”

“I’m content with the ones I own.”

“The pyjamas,” the statement was pointed. Javert tried to pull his hand away but Valjean held firm.

“Yes.”

“You’re a man of ridiculous modesty.”

Javert didn’t comment.

“Up, then. You’re not so old as to wither away on the couch in rags,” Valjean used his hold to pull the younger man up to standing, but was only rewarded with exaggerated cries of pain.

“You fool, you’ll break me again!”

Valjean smiled, grin brushing Javert’s whiskered cheek, “Someday.”

They were both aware of Javert’s sudden shiver.

“Come now, we’ll buy you something smart.” _We._

It was like coaxing a nervous bull from a pen, but Javert eventually made it downstairs and to the street. He looked horribly ragged in comparison to the sharply dressed M. Fabre, but no one seemed to give much notice. The sun was bright and the air carried a cooling breeze; anyone not so lost in their own thoughts was marveling at the calming weather. They had no time to gossip about the raggedy inspector by the gentleman’s side. With a sturdy hand on Javert’s back, they two made their way to the tailor to fit Javert into some new clothes.

The problem was his modesty.

He rebuked the fine patterns and preferred the rough, grey wool, no matter how much Valjean insisted he could afford it. It was an uphill struggle, comparable to heaving in a decommissioned ship from the sea. Valjean had done enough of that to know the comparison was fit.

“I want you to be happy,” he implored as he thrust a tailored shirt at him, “Please, indulge yourself!”

“I want to be comfortable, nothing more,” Javert bit back, standing before him in rough clothes any man on the street could purchase. Valjean screamed into his hands shortly.

“If you do not try the finer cuts, I will dress you like a mother to her unruly child!”

There was something like a smile on Javert’s lips. It quickly disappeared.

Eventually Javert conceded to Valjean’s pestering and reemerged from the dressing curtain a changed man. He wore the clothes of a man of high status, attractively cut to his form. Valjean was silent in his review, eyes wandering and mind clouding with thoughts untoward. Javert urged him to react, color flooding his cheeks.

“Stop that staring,” his voice was soft but urgent, “It’s indecent.”

It decidedly was. Valjean looked away.

“We’ll take two more in blue and black.”

He was deaf to Javert’s moaning.

-

The two returned to Valjean’s apartment in high spirits, having collected groceries en route from the tailor. Valjean would make a beef stew that night. Javert offered to roast vegetables. The apartment was flooded with warmth from the two contented men.

They ate and retired to the couch as the sun drew low in the sky and the wind turned cold. Their fingers found one another’s as they sat together and conversed quietly about pointless things. Valjean could not remember a happier time than this.

Silence overcame them as Javert returned to his careful consideration of Stendhal’s work and Valjean balanced between sleep and wakefulness. It was a pleasant twilight, especially with Javert’s fingers twitching against his as he read _Le rouge et le noir._ It happened suddenly then.

“My name is Matthieu.”

Valjean nearly broke his neck in turning it so quickly. Javert held his gaze evenly.

“Oh.”

A thousand thoughts flooded his mind, so shocked into wakefulness as it was. Valjean wondered how many people knew that. If the law offices of Paris even knew. He boggled at the fact that even he should know now, though Javert showed no sign of regret in revealing this obviously personal information. His hand tightened against Javert’s and Javert squeezed back.

“Matthieu Javert,” he tried the name for the first time; how many people had used that full name? Javert’s smile was very reserved.

“It seemed appropriate that you know.”

Valjean kissed Javert’s knuckles then without another thought.

“Thank you.”

Then there was a moment between them, with Valjean’s lips on his knuckles and their gazes locked. A stirring. Hearts racing. A moment on a precipice Javert and Valjean had been toeing for weeks now. The room felt so much smaller than Javert remembered it, so much warmer, but Heaven help him he couldn’t look away. Thoughts flooded his mind, as they did Valjean’s. The possibilities of this moment’s outcome weighed heavily in their heads.

They nudged apart, nerves lost, cheeks tinged red.

“I’m going to make coffee,” Javert decided sharply and went off to do so, leaving Valjean on the couch. Their hearts pounded in unison, though they’d never know.


	7. Disquiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been leaving such nice comments. I feel bad about this.

Javert no longer walked with a limp. He used the cane often, but not always; mostly when he and Valjean took evening strolls by the river and spoke in low tones about the topic of the day. But he was walking confidently once more, as the officer he once was, and Valjean felt no small sense of pride in that. Javert would catch him watching appreciatively as he climbed the step ladder to get the good dishes and he would, with flushed cheeks, shoo the man’s gaze away. It only worked for so long before Valjean’s wandering eyes drifted back and the embarrassed sputtering would begin again. 

Strangely, he was contented by the attraction of the older man’s gaze. He’d never considered himself much of a prize in any physical way but there was something in Valjean’s eyes whenever he caught him staring–it would disappear quickly when the other was caught but Javert saw it. Whatever it was, warm and soft and accepting, it caused his chest to tighten and expand all at once, as if his heart was swelling beyond its limits. Such moments were bits of heaven in Javert’s mind, and he didn’t mind so much as often as Valjean looked.

So it was for a long time. The shy looks and quiet caresses and gentle words became common between the two men, so cut off from affection and longing for the entirety of their lives. Their companionship became something deeper and more precious to them than the riches of the world and for that, they were glad. Not to say they did not argue. Nothing is so perfect that could keep the two former-enemies from raising their voices to the other on feverish nights. It was rare, however, that their words were so sharp as to cause the other to strike or leave the apartment entirely. They were respectful, if stubbornly opinionated. Eventually, these heated conversations quieted down to another evening spent together before sleep, when words were no longer required. A simple look or touch held the weight of a sonnet in these times. Worded apologies were rarely needed.

They were inseparable at all times, save for the night, when they would clasp hands or lean close and wish each other well for the morning. More and more, it became harder to part ways, when something would take hold of their hearts in silence and leave them lingering in each other’s doorways for long minutes, neither daring to ask if they might spend just a few hours more together. They wanted it desperately but neither brought voice to it. Just a clasping of hands, a touch of foreheads, communicated the longing. But they were shy and unaccustomed to this tenderness and parted eventually for a lonely bed.

Another time, they both promised before sleep.

Javert spoke little of finding his own apartment or returning to his post in the later days, even when fully recovered. Valjean never pressed the issue, content to keep the former-inspector by his side for as long as possible. It was an unspoken agreement they had become content to keep for the years to come.

The severity of this promise didn’t quite ring with Javert until Valjean asked him to move to the countryside with him.

“There’s no need to stay in the city,” Valjean explained, “Cosette is well cared for by Marius.”

Javert held his hand against the sadness that filled Valjean’s heart. The pain was easy to see for one who had come to memorize so many of Valjean’s expressions.

“I’ll go.”

Valjean squeezed his hands.

“We’ll leave the morning of her wedding.”

“So soon?” Javert’s hand attempted to retreat, only for Valjean to pull both of them closer, noses brushing.

“As soon as possible. There are many things I should like to do in my retirement,” The suggestion weighed heavily inside Javert’s chest. He made a small noise of nervousness, “Hush, you great coward.”

“I’m not the coward.”

An over-step. Valjean dropped his hands.

“You read my letter to Cosette.”

“You harbor too much shame in your soul, Jean,” Javert muttered uselessly, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. There is nothing but love in her eyes.”

Valjean was unconvinced, even by the concession of the man who had believed him to be the scum of society for the better part of his years. Javert supposed some things never change. And who was he to dictate how Valjean should deal with his daughter?

They packed to leave the apartment and begin new lives together in the rural farms of France. Javert looked forward to the idea. He fancied himself a bit of a gardener, envisioning long days of tending crops while Valjean watched over him in his labors. Javert smiled, chest swelling, as Valjean hefted their bags up onto the carriage.

Valjean stumbled.

“Jean?” Javert rushed to his side, gathering the bags up from the older man’s arms. Valjean panted, grasping to the side of the cart, eyes wide with shock.

“That’s never happened before...”

Javert began to worry.

-

It really was the beginning of something very serious, as it turned out. The ride to the countryside was uneasy, filled with Valjean’s irritated throat-clearings.

They eventually became a cough.

It troubled Javert deeply, but most things did. He clutched his rosary tightly whenever he heard Valjean’s choking, though he was always sent away when he tried to assist. Valjean promised him he was simply adjusting to the country air. Still, it didn’t abate for days, deepening down into his lungs and becoming relentless for long minutes. Jean Valjean, the man who could move a mast, could not pick himself up from the couch without a long, painful coughing fit.

“You need to rest,” he insisted quietly, urging him to lie back on the sofa.

“It’s a summer cough,” Valjean weakly protested and pushed past the younger man. Javert closed his eyes and prayed he was right.

Valjean caught a fever.

The former-inspector was at a loss of what to do. The country doctor gave them medicine but the fever persisted. Valjean would obediently lie in bed and sweat it out but still, the damning fever continued. Javert prayed at a near constant, mumbling to his Father for good grace and miracles and begging for mercy. The kind Valjean promised him God would grant in faithfulness. The kind that turned him from a lifetime of hatred to the kind soul he now was. But their Father had turned away from them now, Javert darkly thought as he lay awake in his bed and listened to Valjean in his own room. No benevolent and miracle-working God would torture a saint like Valjean like this.

Javert slept uneasily, mind racing and brow tightly furrowed.

He was scared.

-

He found himself surrounded by darkness and snow, standing on a thin sheet of ice over a harbor. Javert had been stripped of his uniform and stood shivering in his raggedy under-clothes. Beside him, frozen and decrepit ships creaked in the frigid water. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Above him, the stars were black.

There was a woman at the shore. A gaunt woman in red, standing untouched by the ice and wind. She stared at Javert directly, even as the wind whipped up around her. Javert felt cold inside, as if he’d been filled with snow.

He asked for Valjean.

The woman turned away.

The ice was cracking beneath his feet. Javert tried again.

“W-where is Jean?”

His breath was an icy cloud. He trembled viciously, alone on the splintering ice.

“Please.”

The woman left him.

“Don’t-!”

The ice gave way, plunging Javert into the freezing current below, muffling his screams for help. He paddled furiously but sank nonetheless, down and down into frigid depths where no starlight would see him again.

He screamed, water rushing into his lungs.

The light of heaven faded away.

Valjean was not there.


	8. Alone

Dreams like these dogged him for days as Valjean grew pale and thin. Javert tried to hold strong and care for the man as he had for him but his efforts were in vain. Valjean was rapidly disappearing, as if before his eyes, and Javert could only stand by and watch as the man slipped away. What could he do? The medicine didn’t work, as much as Javert would pray for it. Valjean’s eyes were losing their light. His rich, joyful voice was fading away to a weak rasp. His strong hands would rest limply in Javert’s, though he would try to reassure the younger man.

“Don’t you dare,” Javert whispered, holding on tight with both hands, “Don’t you dare leave me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Valjean promised with a weak smile.

Javert lowered his head and tried not to cry.

He tried to resume life around Valjean as a show of good faith but without him by his side, he felt more alone than he ever had before. Even in the days of being a street urchin himself or a hated prison guard, Javert had never felt so helplessly forlorn. Of course, he was happy to take care of Valjean as much as he could; he would gladly buy the groceries and make the meals and pen letters to Cosette for the weaker man. But he couldn’t help but feel he was fighting a losing battle with fate. Valjean wasn’t getting any stronger. He wasn’t smiling as much. He barely spoke, even when Javert tried to prompt him into one of their theological debates. Instead of a heartfelt discussion of the mercy of the Lord, Valjean would only nod silently to even the most wrathful conjectures Javert would propose. Javert let his head fall at the concession and rubbed his eyes.

“We’re not yet abandoned,” Valjean finally murmured, hand catching on Javert’s, “There is always a plan.”

“I fear that’s true,” Javert scrubbed at his eyes, “And we are near the end of it.”

“Matthieu...”

He shook his head violently, trying to keep the tears from falling. He would not permit himself to cry in front of Valjean.

“You were sent to me as an angel all these years,” the words were bitter and choking, “And you’ve done His work.”

“There is always more work to be done...”

“For others,” Javert leaned close, forehead touching Valjean’s. The weaker man nuzzled him gently, fingers weakly squeezing his larger hand.

“For us all,” his lips grazed his cheek, “Do not think death is an end.”

“Don’t say that,” Javert hissed harshly. He couldn’t prevent the tear rolling down his cheek, “Do not say that word.”

“... Alright,” Valjean kissed his cheek, “Nothing more.”

As comforting as Valjean tried to be in this time, it did no good for Javert’s faith. More and more, he was caught under a gloomy shadow, convinced of God’s wrath more than the mercy Valjean always tried to preach. His mind clouded with hateful questions, even as he clutched his rosary tight and said his prayers by Valjean’s side.

_No loving God would torture me this way_ , Javert thought while curled against Valjean in the bed while the evening sun filtered through the shuttered window. The once-strong heartbeat of the other was thready and faint. Javert buried his face and held him tighter.

_Please_.

It happened later that night.

Javert was reading to him from one of the Gospels when Valjean began mumbling. It was soft and indistinct, but emphatic. Javert leaned close, worried eyes darting.

“... Speak up for Cosette to hear, she’s only little,” he gestured to the door where his daughter might be standing. Javert looked. The doorway stood empty, missing the little girl Valjean had rescued, who was now grown and married. Javert looked back to the man in bed, worried eyes becoming wet.

“Jean,” he tried quietly, “She is not here.”

“She is,” Valjean insisted, voice growing raspy, as if it took great effort to speak. He reached out, “And her mother. Fantine, you look so lovely... All in white, like... like an...”

Javert felt his world contract, “An angel.”

“Beautiful...” his head started to drop.

“Jean!” He grabbed his hand, his own shaking in panic. _Not now, please, God, Father in heaven-_

Soft mumbling, “Matthieu...”

The tears were already beginning to fall, though Javert tried to delay the inevitable, “Jean, don’t leave me!” _Do not take him!_

“... Love...”

He squeezed his hands desperately, “Jean!!”

Jean Valjean closed his eyes. Javert felt, with horror, his body grow cold.

Slowly, Javert sat up, tears rolling down his cheeks as he looked upon Valjean, the man who could pull in a ship by himself, cold and sleeping for the last time.

The world constricted to a cold and dark thing where once there was light. A world that had been lit anew in the light of acceptance and love was snuffed out sharply, leaving Javert shivering with tears. It couldn’t be possible. The world could not be so cruel. He had tried to heal this man, only to have him pass away despite his efforts? Javert hiccuped thickly, shaking hand taking Valjean’s cold and lifeless one.

“Jean,” his voice shook as tears rolled down his cheeks. There was no response, save for the echo of his own, singular voice. His heart began to pound with anxiety. Valjean did not wake.

“Oh God,” Javert bowed his head, sobbing and kissing Valjean’s hand. His body trembled. He began to curse.

“God damn it!” he shouted, overcome with anxiety, “God damn you! How can you do this to me?! How can you steal him away when we’d only just begun-!”

Javert cursed God until his mouth was bitter with hatred and his throat sore from the blasphemy. He sobbed until his body felt weak and he collapsed by Valjean’s side, sniveling like a broken thing and clinging to the body of one who used to lust for life, yet had his stolen away with barely a warning. Javert coughed and clenched his hands tightly, wanting to feel some other burn than the one that scorched his soul.

He lay by the body’s side for long hours before he could tear himself away. The cottage was dark and cold with only his footsteps and breath to fill it.

Valjean’s candlesticks had long burned themselves out.

Javert collapsed at the couch in the main room, unwilling to spend his night in his own bed. The dreams that came to him were unfriendly and absent of Valjean’s comforting smile.

He was alone.


	9. Mourning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are such troopers. I appreciate you all so much for sticking through this. As a reward, have a comfort chapter. xx

In the empty days that followed, Javert took it upon himself to sort out Valjean’s final affairs and see to it all matters were settled. It pained him to visit the coroner and inform him of the man’s passing; pained him worst still to miss even the smallest reaction to the news. If it had been so many years ago in Montreuil-sur-Mer, the news would have merited long silence and mournful reflection of the great man. It seemed so odd to find someone who did not know of the former mayor or the kindness of M. Fabre. But they had only moved out a few weeks ago. They were not well-established citizens. Valjean simply hadn’t had time to charm the people of the small town with his generosity and kind soul. Javert kept his disappointment to himself.

Valjean’s body was quietly removed from the house. Javert lingered in the doorway as he was carried out, watching the coach disappear down the road, and waited for night to fall. In his bones, the loneliness ached like a vicious infection. But he did not cry.

The next order of business was far more painful to him. He had to inform Cosette of her father’s passing. It was not a duty he took on willingly but out of responsibility. Better to hear from someone familiar and one who knew him well than to read in Paris’ obituaries or find that his letters mysteriously stop altogether. What a torturous existence that would be, to wonder if your father who loved you for so many years had simply lost the time to reach you. No, he had to tell her, straightforward. After all, he was Valjean’s–

Javert stopped in his sober musings and turned his gaze to the wall opposite Valjean’s desk, where he’d collected himself to write Cosette a letter. What were he and Valjean? Their budding relationship had been so suddenly and unexpectedly aborted that any romantic title felt inappropriate and brought a shameful blush to his cheeks. But to call him a friend felt an empty lie. It was so much more than friendship; deeper and enriching and painful in his absence. The reminder of his solitude made his heart ache deeply. Javert ran a hand over his face with a sigh.

“God damn it,” the blasphemy fell from his lips easily. If God could not save Valjean, what veneration did He merit?

Titles left aside, Javert knew the responsibility lay with him. He penned a letter to Cosette, as he had done so many times as Valjean grew ill, though now he spoke with his own words. It was refreshing and agonizing all at once.

He sealed the envelope with Valjean’s signet and walked to the local post. The snow at his feet held only his footprints, as they always had, but it felt more significant now. Silly, really; Valjean had never walked with him in winter. He’d seen him trek his own path in the snows of Toulon, followed his and Cosette’s tracks through the woods, but never had they walked together. The coldness Javert felt then was nothing to do with the winter winds.

Javert mailed the letter, as he’d always done for Valjean. He reflected on those days as well as he drew up his wearing greatcoat against the snow. It’d been a way to listen to Valjean for a good long time without pauses or interruptions; only the man’s voice as he dutifully penned each word to his daughter. His voice had been thinning even then but it was wonderful as ever. But the more he reflected, the more he realized he was forgetting.

What had his voice sounded like?

Rich and inviting, he decided as he entered the dark cottage. Soothing. Sure. He’d always sounded strong; in Toulon, as Madeleine, at the barricade. Javert sighed, passing by Valjean’s vacated room. His fingers skirted the doorframe. Bits of Valjean’s voice were disappearing from memory even in these short days after his passing. Javert resolutely held on to the memory of the pleasant curl Valjean’s voice took around pronouncing his Christian name. 

_Matthieu_. 

Like a prayer.

He left Valjean’s room.

Cosette would be arriving the next day. Javert dreaded the encounter with a sick stomach. It would be a difficult affair; he knew he had no tact with such serious news or in dealing with young women. Of course he would have to suffer both. Not that Cosette was one to be suffered–she was a lovely girl with a bright future and Valjean’s love but Javert was old and reserved and horribly shy when faced with such matters. But he owed it to Valjean. He owed him so much. He had so much to do in Valjean’s passing because of it. He had so much to prepare for. So little he could will himself to do.

A funeral to plan.

The realization was a gradual one, though it still wounded him deeply to come to terms with it. The coroner was preparing the body. He would have to bury him soon, though his soul ached in the wake of planning a funeral for one who taught him to cherish life. What painful irony, to have to bury one who had been overflowing with such vitality. The one who had saved countless lives was unable to be revived. Javert bitterly cursed God again. It came easier to him in his grief.

Javert didn’t pray anymore. Not to God. He’d long abandoned the gypsy-born man, he reflected in the twilight after Valjean. He was clearly deaf or uncaring; always had been. No, now his prayers were to Valjean, sanctified in his mind and far more gracious than anyone Javert had ever known.

At night, Javert would lie in his bed or on the couch, rosary long-forgotten on his dresser, and whisper all the things he’d wanted to say but never could manage to. Javert would mutter frantically, sometimes with tears rolling down his cheeks, telling Valjean everything he could think of. The chores he’d done. The meals he’d had. How hard life was without him. Javert would grasp his pillow tightly through his prayer, shaking with the effort not to fly apart. These meditations soothed and scorned him; freed him and imprisoned him from and in his grief.

“She’s coming tomorrow, Jean,” Javert whispered that night, twisting his fingers in his sheets. His throat was tight, “I have to tell her. I don’t want to. I don’t know how. How am I supposed to break a young woman’s heart like this? To tell her you’re gone...”

He pressed his face down and let himself cry.

“I miss you.”

-

Cosette arrived at the cottage early the next morning. Javert hadn’t slept.

“Bon matin, monsieur,” she greeted him easily. Javert regarded her tiredly and showed her inside, “Where is papa?”

“I have to explain something to you, madame,” he said numbly. He made two coffees, as he always did, though now one wouldn’t be tossed out. He gave Valjean’s mug to Cosette.

He’ll never forget the look of heartbreak as he told her Valjean had passed.

Something in those innocent blue eyes shattered the instant the words left his lips.

It was shock.

And then everything came crumbling down.

Cosette broke down into tears immediately, though she protested and pleaded for him to be lying. Javert remained silent, eyes downcast, as Cosette began to sob. It was loud, it was messy, and it was undignified. She was a wreck, shaking and sobbing and calling out for her deceased father, arms clutched about herself. Javert steeled himself as much as he could, but his heart was only just healed and Cosette’s love and grief for her father was too much. He saw his own in her tears.

He reached for her.

She took to him as if he were Valjean himself, shaking in his arms and wetting his shoulder with her tears. He hugged her, eyes closed, and willed himself not to join her. He must be strong for the girl. The girl who’d spent her life in misery, losing mother and father before their times.

What a curse it was to be loved and to lose the one who loved you.

Javert held onto her tightly.

He found himself wondering, as Cosette’s tears began to slow, how many times Valjean had held her like this when the world overwhelmed her. Often, he believed. He was that sort of father. Cosette was that sort of girl. Javert closed his eyes against her hair and held her until she sniffled.

“He loved you deeply,” he promised, hand combing through her hair, “He thought of you in his passing.”

It took a long time for either to recover.

-

It was sometime later, when the sun was high and the snow blinding outside, when Cosette was sat in the living room and coping with the knowledge of her father’s passing. She was strong, Javert noted as she sat quietly, thumbing the mug of coffee she refused to pour out though it’d gone cold. She would survive. It comforted him to know something with such assurance.

“Monsieur,” the young woman’s voice was so small; that of a child lost in the woods, “How did you know my father?”

Javert’s chest tightened at the question. Of course. It was inevitable. But that didn’t make it any easier to answer. Theirs was a sorted history, most of it unfit for the young madame to hear. Still, she was owed the truth of her father’s life. He fiddled with his shirt for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“We had a long history,” he began, voice tight.

Cosette was clearly waiting for the rest of the story, but it did not come easily to the older man. How does one begin to detail such complicated lives? She would only see the hate and shame, surely. How could anyone begin to understand–

“You’re the man who chased us.”

Javert looked up sharply, “I’m surprised you remember that.”

Cosette simply nodded, “You don’t easily forget being pursued by a mounted police.”

The two shared a mirthless smile at the memory.

“Yes, I was that officer.”

After that admission, the tension between the two in the wake of Cosette’s grief lightened considerably. It was still an uphill struggle to begin to explain Valjean’s past, sorted as it was, shameful as it was as a criminal, but Cosette was a curious girl and needled him for the stories. Eventually, he relented and began the tale of his and Valjean’s tangled lives, automatically omitting certain details here and there. For both their sakes. 

In Toulon, he neglected the facts of Valjean’s violence in brawls. He spoke only of his strength and the true nature of his crime; to save his sister’s children. In Montreuil-sur-Mer, he spoke fondly of the generous mayor and how often they but heads over the extent of that charity. He did not speak of his failed attempt to expose him as the ex-convict. It was embarrassing enough to admit to being duped for so many months. Then the story led him to the night when Cosette was taken from the Thénardiers and he detailed the chase excitedly, watching the young woman light up and supply her own facts to enrich the story. How she and Valjean had scaled the church wall. How they’d made a life at the convent for years, escaping Javert entirely. He smiled openly at the thought of Valjean tending to the garden as Cosette learned Latin in a classroom nearby. It was a life he found himself longing to have had by Valjean’s side, but those days were long lost.

From there, conversation flowed effortlessly; the two joked and laughed about Valjean’s evasions of the officer, even to Paris, right up to the night Javert tried to take his life. He spoke plainly about that night after the barricade stole Marius’ friends from him. Without that night and the misery that befell him, the irreconcilable moral issues that plagued him, he would not have seen Valjean for who he really was. Cosette’s bright eyes dimmed with sadness at the facts but she touched his knee in assurance. She was not easily shaken. 

“He took me in,” Javert’s eyes softened at the conjured memory, though he was not conscious for it, “Obviously, I protested. I was in a dark place; and to have a convict nurse me?” He scoffed with a dismissive gesture, “Shameful. But here I am. Whole and made well.”

He was anything but whole.

“Not just your body,” Cosette intoned, more to herself than the former inspector. Their eyes met. There was something there in hers that made Javert stop, just for a moment.

_Your heart_.

Javert blushed with shame then, averting his eyes to the floor. All merriment of recounting his life with Valjean had left him, as he had, cold and remorseful, nostalgic for the days wasted with hate. Tears welled up against his will. His hands clenched tightly in his lap. Enough to turn white at the knuckles and shake ever so slightly. The ache in his chest consumed him. And then a smaller, fairer hand touched his balled ones. Cosette smiled softly and squeezed to soothe the ache.

“I’m sorry,” his voice was tight. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Please do not be, monsieur. You made my papa’s life a happy one at the end. It is too much to thank you for.”

It started slowly, with a hiccup and a shudder, but Javert finally cried. It was easier now; easier than it had been initially when Valjean had left him and he was alone in his sorrow. Cosette was there beside him in an instant, as soon as the first tears rolled down his thinning and whiskered cheeks, and it soothed the ache like a balm to a wound. She held his hands and pet them softly as Javert wept shamefully for long minutes. But what relief it brought him to confide in another. 

He turned his wet gaze to meet the younger woman’s but did not see her bright, blue eyes when they met. Instead, he saw a familiar look fixed upon him. A look he’d seen in the eyes of Monsieur Madeleine in Montreuil and in Valjean’s at their apartment in Paris. It was unconditional acceptance as he’d seen in no other person but Valjean. And now, in the eyes of his daughter. His healing heart ached with the thought.

She drew him into a hug then, smaller form becoming his comforting and saving rock in the maelstrom of grief and he found himself clinging to her for his life.

“I can see God’s love in you, monsieur,” she said softly, pulling away, “I know my father taught you that. He did the same for me.”

The taste of bile flooded his mouth. Javert looked away, “I am not so sure.”

“I am.”

And she was.

“Monsieur,” she squeezed his hands once more, “Love is not a sin.”

Javert blinked and met her eyes again. How could a child such as she be so devastatingly clever? Not a child, he reminded himself; not that girl lost in the snow, clinging to Valjean as he ran. A woman now. A brilliant one. Insightful and clever and kind; damningly so. He lowered his head, scrubbing uselessly at his tired eyes.

“I would not say that.”

“Well I would,” her voice was strong enough to make Javert almost recoil, “Papa spoke of you often when I visited his apartment. I know you heard him. You would believe he fabricated that enthusiasm?”

“The hopeful youth of today,” he merely shook his head, “It is a finished matter.”

It turned into a heated debate that Javert sorely ended up losing. Cosette was fixed upon the idea that their life was one of star-crossed passion, which embarrassed Javert deeply, but she was far too quick-witted to allow him to protest. Through her wheedling, she got him to admit to being in love with Valjean and hugged him in triumph of her own victory. And, perhaps, in his.

“Love is a gift,” Cosette told him later in the kitchen as they made afternoon tea, “Do not hide it away for no one to see.”

“There is no one to see it,” his eyes wandered back in the direction of Valjean’s unoccupied room.

“I say, let it ignite joy and good works,” the young woman pushed a warm mug of tea into his hands. Javert smiled warmly down at her, turning away from the cold memory of the past.

“You truly are your father’s child.”

They shared that happy memory for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also! I don't want anyone to think I'm flubbing Cosette's character to spare Javert's and our feelings. Homosexuality was decriminalized in 1791 under vague wording in the revised Penal Code, but confined it to private practices (this was reinforced in an update to the Code in 1810.) Still, homosexuality and cross-dressing were both largely seen as immoral and those practicing the lifestyles could be arrested under violations of public decency, but as far as this fic goes... I mean that's a bit irrelevant to the plot. But I wanted to let everyone know the historical stance on the issue in France at this time.
> 
> Fanfiction can be educational.


	10. Heaven

The two quickly grew together as a patchwork family, supporting each other in their mourning and making the stretch of days more bearable. Though Javert never thought himself fit for a father or to have a family of his own, Cosette was understanding in his handicap. She gently nudged him into the proper role of fatherhood, as she had done for Valjean, and Javert found himself growing into the part. Checking on her in the mornings, preparing her meals, sending her out for errands. It came easily, with her aid, but still inside Javert felt the loneliness of Valjean’s absence. What would it be to father her together? The idea seemed so ridiculous, yet he longed for it desperately. But as soon as those thoughts came, Cosette would divert his attention and Javert would push the idea aside for her.

Still, some things were not entirely easy. The funeral, for one, was a difficult ordeal for them both. Again, the disappointment of having no mourners beside him and the girl stung his heart. But it was for the best, he reasoned; his memory was best preserved in the hearts of those who loved him. Javert thought it bitterly, even as he ushered Cosette into the chapel where he did not feel he belonged.

It was painfully brief, though they both gave their eulogies for the man in attempt to make the final farewell last. Javert was at odds with the event; wanting it to continue forever so he would not have to leave Valjean in the past but wishing it to end so he may escape heartbreak and the burning shame he felt sitting in the house of a God he’d abandoned. As all things, the funeral did finally end, and Javert found himself standing before the casket, fingers tracing the elegant carvings, bidding him restful sleep.

“No doubt our paths will cross again,” he promised the oaken casket, though he knew he’d fallen too far from God’s light to meet him in paradise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d confessed to God or thanked Him for His blessings. Grief had injured him too deeply. Still, he kissed the coffin and wished Valjean good night. The least he could do was promise comfort to Valjean’s soul.

“Heaven shines brighter,” the bishop assured them. It rested numbly in Javert’s heart as they left for the cottage.

Outside, the snow was falling peacefully, blanketing the sleeping fields as the two mourners made their way home. Cosette walked close to Javert’s side, chilled by the winter, and Javert took her closer against his greatcoat to warm her. They walked in companionable and somber silence for long minutes, the icy fog of their breaths coming in small clouds before them. Everything was so blessedly quiet. Above them, few stars peaked from behind the clouds. Javert watched them, a thousand questions in his mind.

What did the stars see in them?

“What will you do now?” Cosette asked while they wandered in the fields. Javert remained quiet, hand clenching on her shoulder, thoughts slowly clearing like the clouds parting above them. Cosette glanced to him briefly before returning her own gaze to the horizon before them. The cottages in the distance glowed with tiny flames in the windows, caught inside the homes like Earth’s own stars.

“A man goes mad in solitude,” she spoke again, voice sharp as the icy chill. Javert returned his gaze to her bonneted head, “You’re welcome at my husband’s home. I’d be comforted if you did.”

“Unfailing kindness,” Javert reflected quietly. She was much like her father. His hand squeezed her shoulder again, “I might do.”

“I wish you would, monsieur.”

“Javert.”

“Javert.”

-

They returned to the cottage for the night, Cosette taking Javert’s room and the former inspector taking the couch, as was done every night. But he did not sleep immediately nor did he select a book to read by the candlelight. Instead, he wandered the small house, mentally noting which things to pack and which things to donate to the church’s outreach. So much of Valjean’s belongings made the latter list, Javert thought with a heavy heart, but he could not convince himself it was practical to cling to all memories of the man. But with that thought, he ventured into Valjean’s abandoned bedroom to carefully collect the silver candlesticks sitting upon the desk at the far wall. While he told himself that the candlesticks were Valjean’s most important possessions and the man himself would be dishonored by their donation, a large part of him knew it wasn’t the full truth. It was his own sentimentality that drove him to wrap up the silver in thick, protective cloth and pack them away. Before he hid them entirely, however, he looked down into the shining silver, half-hoping to see Valjean’s kind eyes caught in the reflection. But he only saw himself; an old man, sick with grief and tired to his bones.

He packed the candlesticks.

-

Suffice to say, Marius was surprised at Javert’s arrival. Cosette, the ridiculous girl, hadn’t thought to mail him a letter explaining the situation, so the realization that the former spy was alive and Valjean was dead was, succinctly, jarring.

He’d fainted.

Javert tried very hard not to laugh.

The next few days were less humorous and far more tense, as Javert seemed very much intruding upon the Pontmercy household, though he was invited personally by Cosette. Marius’ grandfather, a former colonel in the army, was quite disapproving of the retired inspector. Every chance he had he utilized to remind Javert that while he was merely watching over the ruffians of Paris’ streets, he had been keeping France safe and fighting for the glorious empire. Javert respectfully held his tongue and nodded as though he’d been put in his place. At night, he would rant to Cosette and prove himself just as admirable as the old war veteran. Cosette would reassure him for a time, until Javert retired to bed and made his complaints, once again, to Valjean. It comforted him immensely.

Marius was more courteous to the new addition to the household, but the boy was still awkward and fidgety around him, as if he kept forgetting that Javert was there. He was startled at every turned corner he saw Javert behind, whether the man was merely walking down the hallway or reading in the living room. Every look he shot the boy earned a flinch and an averted gaze. Nothing seemed to calm him.

So Javert had fun with it.

At dinner, he would stare pointedly at Marius whenever he caught the boy looking until he had to relent and lower his head, submitting. Javert contained his amusement poorly; Cosette would often shoot disapproving looks his way as well or nudge his shin under the table.

_You’re quite old enough to stop playing games, Javert._

Javert strained not to grin and ate his dinner without further incident.

-

Javert was not merely an idle ghost about the Pontmercy estate. He accompanied Cosette on most errands about the house and into the city, feeling the strongest companionship to the young girl. She returned the sentiment and was glad to have him doting about her, fatherly instincts guiding her purchases and ways about the house, as they had done at the cottage. It was almost like Valjean in his earlier years of caring for her. Cosette told Javert as much, watching the fondness grow in his eyes as she described his overly-protective habits, making the old man blush when he realized he had been doing the same.

“Well,” he defended weakly, “He was right. You are a silly girl and need watching.”

Cosette shook her head with a grin and the two continued in their chores.

-

“How are you healing?” She asked one evening before they visited the shops. Javert paused in straightening his cap and looked himself over in the mirror mounted by the front entrance. He didn’t like the look of himself.

_A broken heart heals more slowly than a broken back_ , he didn’t say, straightening his greatcoat. Javert grunted.

“At any rate,” she tugged at the ratty sleeve playfully, “You could finally shave.”

Javert couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

“You are truly your father’s daughter.”

-

It was true what he had said; a broken heart takes a long time to heal. Longer than other injuries, Javert knew it well. But he was healing. He was loved by Cosette as a second father and welcomed to a luxurious life he’d never known before, albeit slowly. His soul ached to enjoy it with Valjean by his side, to have that family he’d never known, but he convinced himself Valjean was never truly gone. He was in Cosette’s laugh and her eyes, and in his own hands when he gave alms to the impoverished. Slowly, as the days and weeks since Valjean’s passing dragged on, Javert dragged himself out of despair. After all, what good would it do to Valjean’s efforts to save his life if he spent it in cold sorrow?

“Javert,” Cosette prompted one early Sunday, “Will you join us at mass?”

He reflected upon the idea for a long moment while the girl tied her Sunday bonnet. How long had it been since his last confession? Since he had seen God as a follower rather than an abandoned child?

“I may not be welcome,” he answered numbly, eyes downcast. Her hand gripped his then in earnest.

“You are welcome still,” Cosette promised, kissing his brow, “Whether or not you join us today, you are sill one of His children.”

Javert followed the Pontmercy’s to church.

He opened his Bible once more. 

He read the scriptures Valjean favored; love and acceptance and the teachings of Christ. He felt Valjean beside him as he read the words to Cosette and Marius for evening devotional, though the scriptures were unfamiliar in his mouth. Slowly, he found himself renewed in God’s light by Cosette’s faith in him and the memory of Valjean’s love. He reconciled with God. He confessed and asked forgiveness, returning to the faith. And in his heart he found happiness again, like that he knew when Valjean was by his side.

Though he missed Valjean every day, the pain began to heal. His heart no longer bled and his eyes remained dry in his evening prayers. He repented for his blasphemies and thanks the Lord he even had the chance to love Valjean as he did and that he saw that love again in the eyes of his child. 

Cosette and he took walks along the Seine at night, discussing Valjean and Paris and philosophy and whatever else the clever girl could think of. They visited his former post together; Javert was welcome there was returning staff for his insight into Paris’ criminal circuit. But he saw, as days went by, he was not truly needed. The Law of Paris was being upheld by younger, smarter men. The realization did not pain him as much as he thought it might. It suited him fine; he enjoyed his retirement with Cosette’s company by his side.

He was happy.

It was good.

-

The two were in the kitchen, one evening in late November, preparing the dinner as they always did. Cosette was busy preparing the roast while Javert assembled an array of fresh vegetables with seasoning.

“Jean, pass me the pepper,” he asked off-handedly, gesturing to the girl’s right.

The young woman beside him chuckled, “ _Cosette_ , my dear monsieur.”

“Not you,” Javert corrected, “Valjean. Why, he’s only just by your side, silly girl.”

-

That night had been one of frantic energy, mostly from Cosette, who urged Javert to return to bed immediately. He’d protested and asked about the sudden dimming of the candles, asked about why the sun was setting so early, but the poor girl only panicked further. Strange, he’d thought, feeling so calm. A minor pain in his arm, then his chest, but it hadn’t lasted long before it was replaced by this pleasurable, unnamable feeling. It was as if the world has been quieted into peace for just a moment before the floor dropped away from beneath his feet.

Then, nothing.

When the world returned, he found himself in his bed, cover pulled up about him and the sun softly streaming in. Gingerly, he sat up to see a buttercream sky out his window and to hear soft noise from the street. It sounded like a parade or a great celebration but without the usual chaos.

Javert got up.

He was surprised to find his aching back and knees had been soothed away, probably by the cause of good sleep. He thanked God and Cosette for it, as she was a fine nurse to his side, as her father had been. Javert made his way down the stairs with peaceful spirits but was surprised to find the apartment complex was empty. No tenants, no landlady. Very strange but he made no other note of it.

Javert approached the door, opening to the world.

The street was filled with people celebrating. Young and old were marching and milling about in the street, waving flags as if it were a great holiday. Javert couldn’t remember anything worth celebration upcoming. In fact, as he opened his uniform jacket to the warm sun–had he been wearing it?–the air should be much colder now. But the November air was warm and bright with a soft breeze kissing his face as gentle as a lover. Javert clenched his fists. This was all very strange.

“Boy!” he called, voice tight, to a street urchin, who rushed up to greet him. The young child hugged his legs as if he was his own father, causing Javert to stumble and grasp the wall, “Merde-!”

“Monsieur, you’ve made it!”

“Excuse me?”

“Come with me!”

He took the former-inspector by the hand and led him away into the crowd. Javert braced himself but there was no shoving, no mishaps, only happy celebration swirling about him. Smiling faces, people embracing He stumbled to keep up with the child.

Was it really a parade? Javert tried to see the people rushing past him as he followed the urchin. No, not a parade. Something much more massive. A congregation, a festival, perhaps. But still, so much grander than that. He brushed by a couple of students, who were shouting with cheer and waving flags. The noise was making his head swim.

“Boy, where are you taking me?”

“He’s been asking for you all day!”

“Who, for God’s sake??”

The child shoved him to a structure.

“Climb!”

He did so but was furious with confusion. What was going on?

He cleared the top, standing among others who were cheering and singing. Paris lay before him, grand and sprawling in the afternoon sun. His heart soared at her beauty, though confusion was thick in his mind. How did he get back to his apartment? And wasn’t that child familiar? And those students?

Where was Cosette?

“Matthieu!”

His heart leapt at the voice, head darting round to see–

“Jean?” his heart thrummed frantically in his chest.

It could not be. But it was. Valjean was climbing the structure, taking his place by his side, looking well and peaceful, absent of the pallor of death. Javert stopped breathing, mouth open slightly and lip trembling. It could not _be_.

“I’ve missed you,” his voice was soft as he took Javert’s hand. Then his waist. Tears rolled down Javert’s cheeks. It could not be.

“How...”

Valjean smiled gently against his cheek. His breath was warm against him.

“It was hardly Heaven without you.”

Javert clung to him suddenly and with all his might. His sobbing renewed, relieved instead of despaired for the first time. Valjean held him as the ghosts of Paris sang in triumph on the ground and beside them on the barricade. Javert buried his face in Valjean’s neck, beginning to laugh richly, fingers digging into his shoulders. Valjean was warm in returning the hug. Full of life, Javert thought hysterically. He shook with laughter.

“Cosette-!” Javert’s head darted up sharply, eyes large with fear, “The poor thing, she-”

“She is well taken care of,” Valjean promised in a voice that only Javert could hear, but silenced the cheering noise around them. The older man leaned close, lips brushing Javert’s, “By yours and the love of her husband. You’ve done your duty well.”

Javert trembled softly, eyes falling closed. His hands gripped Valjean tightly.

Their mouth met softly, lips sliding gently together. Heaven grew bright around him. He groaned with relief.

“God in heaven,” he spoke reverently against Valjean’s mouth, “Bless me.”

Valjean laughed, tugging away, “You are here, fool. No need to ask for blessings.”

Javert blushed, but a grin remained upon his lips. He felt the flush of light and love stir his soul.

Valjean took his hand then, leading him down from the barricade. The crowd of the street parted before them, allowing easy passage back to the apartment. The one he’d spent months living and growing close with Valjean. It occurred to Javert how strange it was to be there when he’d long abandoned the place in favor of the country, and then for Cosette.

“We have much to make up for,” Valjean promised him once they were inside. The air felt suddenly warm and drugging. Javert flushed with embarrassment as Valjean pressed close. Their lips met again, fleetingly.

“It’s permitted?”

“It is love. Love is permitted.”

Javert groaned as he was kissed again.

Yes, an eternity to love Valjean and worship him as he’d missed in mortal life. Javert melted against the taller man with a groan, arms coming about him, body pressing close.

Heaven at last.

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with me! Sorry I made people cry... but not really :3c xx


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